Stolen Talent
by Ember Lee
Summary: She use to believe that in her blood was musical scores, just waiting to be shown to the world. But for a small, city jumping, homeless girl, she wasn't too sure on how to show it. But when you're living off stolen talent and 'rescuing' instruments, anything is possible.


For as long as she could remember, shiny things had attracted her. Pennies on the ground, watches on wrists, diamond earrings. All there, and all easily taken if you have quick and nimble fingers. And in a big city like this, well, it was easy to blend in. In most cases, this was the start for thieves, big or small, but she always had to be different. Soon, she was attracted to bigger, shinier things. Objects that when played correctly, sung like the heavens. She had seen some of the lost playing broken and beat guitars or ukuleles, but had never given them a second thought. But as soon as she had walked past that shop window with them on display, she'd been in love.

At first, she had simply stared. Wide mouth, drooling slightly, stared. Such beautiful instruments, just sitting there, gathering dust as they wait, with sky high prices for someone to claim them. Oh how she had longed to take them under her wing, to set them up in her alleyway and just play, play until her hearts content. But then arose the problem. She didn't know how to play.

Which lead on to her walking in, and close up examinations. Such smooth ivory keys. Slender wires and dainty little hammers. Begging her to sit down and play a little scale. She would wander around, watching and listening to the shop attendants as they taught hopefully customers, slowly tapping out the scales on her thigh. Each and every night, she'd return to her crate and block out the city noise, drumming out those same rhythms against bricks and empty plastic containers. But as beautiful as all music sounded, it was nothing like the real thing.

Stage three became apparent when she got the itch. She couldn't just stand in same store as an instrument without the urge to play it. If she had been diagnosed then and there, people would have called her crazy. But with her matted hair, wild eyes and too baggy clothes, wasn't she already? Eventually, that itch became too much to handle, and she took an opportunity when she saw it. Now, it wasn't to say she was a prodigy or a genius or anything, but as soon as that first set of scales trilled beneath her fingertips, her whole body ached for more. And so, she played.

It started small. Returning to the same piano, day after day, practising her scales before tapping away at random keys, making up the tunes as she went. The shop assistants didn't seem to mind; they had seen her stand there with longing for weeks now and had never chased her away. In fact, they seemed to relish in her music, enticing costumers with her demonstrations, shaking their heads and smiling that knowing smile as she sat for hours on end, just experimenting with sounds. But alas, wouldn't you know it, just when she had found what she believed to be her calling, it was rudely snatched away from her. An angry mother had complained to the boss about the 'dirty child' hovering around and faster than you can say 'contaminated', she had found herself back outside the window, staring in at the people playing music.

So she had wandered. Quick nimble fingers tapping, humming under her breath, she had searched for another outlet. She had tried practising on the broken glasses and dumpster materials again, and sometimes she borrowed the worn instruments, but nothing had the same enriching sound as the piano. Her community noticed her depression, and rallied together to find a solution. So when she was presented with a small, toy xylophone, she didn't know what to say. Instead, she played. She quickly fell in love with the rhythmic _dings _each hammer produced, and found that she could shorten her songs to fit. Soon she was entertaining her community and pedestrians, earning a few shiny pennies each day. She never questioned where they had gotten the instrument, but she had a vague idea.

It turns out, her hunch had been correct. A store, a different store, filled with instruments to the brim. But as soon as she had tried to step foot inside, she had been shooed away. For days she had glared in, ignoring their attempts to chase her away, avoiding the police when they were called. The instruments were calling to her, demanding to be handled with care unlike that ignorant man currently bashing away at the piano. So, as they closed up, she slipped in the back. That whole night, it was just her and the music. And when she left that morning, she took a piece of it with her. A small harmless triangle, now hovered on the drain pipe beside her crate. And it was the gateway to the rest of her life.


End file.
